In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(32)

If Wolsey had given such attention to the stairs, he had spent so much longer overseeing the rooms themselves. The doorway to her room was nearly twice her height, and her Yeoman had to give a great heave to open it. The room was dazzling, no doubt meant to woo a woman.

“Oh!” Anne gasped, unable to pair words to the vision. The bed rose above her at the end of the room, a great red giant, as tall as three men standing on each other’s shoulders, with cascades of shimmering silks floating down to surround the sleeper. The walls were a dark wood, polished and glistening, and as Anne looked up to the ceiling, she saw a fresco of sweet cherubs, its soft blues and whites reminding her of the sky in spring, when the clouds have just begun to turn from grey to white, and the sun has found its strength once more.

Anne hugged her arms to herself, unable to step into the room. A perfume still lingered, of deep spicy scents, so unlike her own rosewater. Servants clambering down the hall behind her were carrying her goods, and she stepped aside to let them enter. They and her bags disappeared into the room.

Wolsey appeared behind her, his robes masking his footsteps. Anne saw her Yeoman’s jaw set in disdain. He did not speak, she thought, but his thoughts were made plain enough.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Wolsey began. “I was preparing for Henry’s arrival.”

“He will be here?” she asked.

“Yes, and since the sweating sickness has passed, more courtiers will be returning. After this I expect him to move on to another residence.”

“It is good of you to receive me,” Anne said.

Wolsey’s eyes went cold. “It has displaced no one to have you.”

Anne bowed her head to end the conversation, embarrassed to have drawn Wolsey out on this point.

“Please explore the gardens as you like, and you may enjoy whatever charms you. Only do not enter my personal rooms, Anne, and do not disturb me after supper.”

“But you know my secrets, Wolsey. Why should I not know yours?”

She touched her neck, fingering her necklace, making sure the fat green emerald ring sat accusingly on her hand before him.



The estate was so quiet while it awaited the court. Anne hadn’t realized how such a crowd of people, with their pecking and preening, their dignities and spites, kept her on edge and rolled into a tight, brittle woman. In the quiet her heart unfolded, her breaths grew deeper and slower, and her courage was a little quicker to rise to the top.

Why was she here? God had allowed all this to happen to her, had He not? So what did He want her to do? Anne tried to reason well. She was being elevated; Catherine was being cast out. Henry insisted the marriage was void, a disgrace to God, which only annulment, a clean washing away, would remedy. Henry’s only interests, Anne saw, were his conscience before God and heirs for the realm. Heirs God would only grant in a lawful, honourable marriage.

Wandering outside her room, she gave a little dismissive nod to her Yeoman guard, who allowed her to pass. She lingered at the image of Miriam again, her thoughts lost and loose, weaving between the delicate stitches before her, moving in and out of little threaded bits and pieces, shadows of thought. She had obeyed God in everything, committing to the seven virtues, shunning the seven sins. She had guided Henry’s early passion for her into something more noble and God had honoured her obedience, setting before her the throne and its powers.

A distant song caught her attention. It was voices singing but one word, over and over. Anne could not understand it but sensed the drumbeat, low and steady, in her bones. Then something pushed against her, setting her off balance. All at once unsteady, she braced the wall beside the tapestry for support, as if the ground beneath her was shifting. A thought came to her and lodged in her mind like an errant bow striking a green young tree and sending little shivers down its trunk. She shook herself and walked on, suddenly compelled to commit a tiny treason.

Anne held her breath, but the halls were quiet. Her Yeoman had not followed her, but she caught his scent, lye soap and rosemary, near her anyway. It comforted her for what she was about to do.



The doors were not locked, but no light was set in the room. It smelled of leather and linen, of candles that had burned throughout the night, and of wax seals poured onto dry parchments. Her stomach lurched and tingled as the voices grew louder in her ears. It was here. She knew it. But looking around the room in the dim light from the hallway, she could see only bales of wool, marked at the ports as they came in. Why Wolsey would be impounding these imports was not a mystery in itself; these could infringe on the English trade. But this was not a matter for priests and cardinals.

They held her attention, and her heart beat faster. Without knowing why, she took a knife from Wolsey’s desk, meant to split seals, and loosened the tie holding one bundle together.

A dozen of the forbidden book spilled out across her feet in the darkness. She cried out from the touch of cold leather against her skin. Every one of these bundles contained them, no doubt—hundreds in this little room alone. Each book was like an accusation, a reminder that she had failed to read it, failed to trust it. She picked one up, reading the marks on the inside page. It was indeed from William Hutchins. She flipped through the pages, eyeing the new woodcuts Hutchins was using. One line caught her eye. It said she was surrounded by invisible witnesses.

The room was still, but not empty. Trembling, she dropped the book, spying on Wolsey’s desk shipping papers and documents that had broken seals.